


Seven Stories

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3697532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, various ratings, written in response to a request, not connected/consistent. Disclaimed properly and thoroughly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hestia_Prytaneum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia_Prytaneum/gifts).



One of the many hazards of undercover work is the moment when you have to do something you don't want to do, something you were only pretending to do, in order to keep your cover intact.

Elizabeth Keen gets drunk on two glasses of wine. She doesn't enjoy hard liquor at all.

"Go on!"

"Shot!"

Liz glares across the table at Raymond Reddington, who is smirking across the table at her, perfectly relaxed.

She insisted on coming with him tonight. She even let him select her clothing, a sheer crimson blouse and the tightest jeans she's ever worn. Her spike heels are red as well, with a tasteless pattern of rhinestones embedded in the narrow straps. Or maybe they're real diamonds. She can't begin to estimate the cost of the lingerie she's wearing - red too, of course.

Red began the evening in his customary suit, but he's down to his shirtsleeves after a few drinks, his sleeves rolled up and his collar unbuttoned.

Liz blinks around the table before lifting the glass to her lips and tipping the vodka down her throat.

One or two more and she'll be vomiting all over their suspects.

"Ladies room?" Liz pushes herself away from the table and totters off in the direction indicated by the only other woman in the group, a plump, older matron with short black curls, clad in a tight black dress and equally high heels. The shots don't seem to be bothering her at all. The three men are young and muscular, equally unaffected. 

Liz pushes the door open and stands swaying in front of the sink.

Her hair still looks fine, braided tightly across the top of her head and pinned securely into place, but her face is so flushed, her lipstick patchy.

Liz looks around for her purse, and realizes she left it on the floor beside her chair.

She can't go back or they'll make her drink again. But she can't just hide in here all night. Someone will come looking for her.

Probably Red. She's pretending to be his woman tonight.

Liz leans on the sink and stares blearily at her reflection. She's pretty enough, in these expensive clothes, her make-up and hair professionally done under Red's exacting supervision.

But she's no match for the types of women that truly interest him.

Too young, too naive, too inept.

Sometimes Liz feels like a female version of Ressler. Or maybe her partner is just taking his cue from her. 

There's a rap at the door.

"Sweetheart? Are you alright?"

Red. 

"I'm coming in."

Before she can think of anything to say, the door opens and he enters with a swagger.

He drops it as soon as the door swings closed behind him.

"Lizzie? Are you alright?" His voice is very soft as he approaches her, lightly touches the center of her back, and meets her gaze in the mirror.

She looks back at Red sadly. They look like a couple, the wide gold frame of the restroom mirror holding them like a portrait, standing so close together.

His fingers rub comfortingly down the knobs of her spine through the tissue-thin fabric of her blouse.

"I shouldn't have come," she tells his reflection.

Red smiles a little ruefully and shakes his head.

"No, these people aren't really your cup of tea."

He's being so unexpectedly kind. As if he can feel the sickness in her stomach, her impending headache.

"I wish I was your cup of tea," she tells him. Although that doesn't make any sense. They're here to gather intelligence, not make love to this motley assortment of dangerous characters. 

Liz blinks back at him as Red stares hard into the mirror, as if expecting her to say or do something. But that's all she has. So she smiles. Not a polished, sophisticated smile, just a lazy, tipsy grin. An invitation to respond in kind.

"Oh, Lizzie, you're the whole tea pot," he murmurs, bending his face and kissing the side of her neck. 

She gasps, watching his familiar face transform as he kisses her, dreamy with desire, his eyes lidded, his alcohol-laden breath hot and moist on her skin.

"Oh, Red," she groans, leaning back against him.

Red takes hold of her shoulders and presses kisses, licks, delicate little bites to her ears, her jaw, the base of her throat exposed by the open neck of the blouse. 

Looking at himself in the mirror. Watching her, as she watches him.

There's a loud rap at the door.

They both freeze.

"I'll tell them you're ill," Red says, releasing her so quickly that Liz barely manages to grasp the edge of the sink again to avoid sinking to the floor.

Alone once again, she stares in horror at her reflection.

What has she done?

***

There's a sharp knock at her door at exactly 6:01 am.

Liz always wakes at 6, but this morning she was hoping to sleep in.

She pretended to sleep in the car on the way back to her motel room. Not with her head pillowed in Red's lap, despite her long-standing fantasies about finding herself in that intimate position, but leaning upright against the car door. As far from his still, silent frame as possible.

Liz drags herself to her feet and pulls on a robe before opening the door.

Red.

Carrying coffee and a bag of pastries.

Just as if nothing ever happened between them.

"Come on in," she says sarcastically, shutting the door after a wave to Dembe. Red never waits for an invitation.

As if he belongs here in this room, with her.

Liz shakes her head at her own foolishness and seats herself next to him at the end of the bed.

"What did you bring me this time?" she asks him, brushing her hair back from her face before taking a long, delicious sip of her coffee. He knows exactly how she likes it, and it's never too hot or too cold.

"I have croissants, baked not an hour ago, plain, chocolate and almond," he tells her, setting his hat aside in the center of the bed before taking a sip of his own coffee.

He's clean-shaven and elegantly dressed and apparently unfazed by the events of the previous night.

They were both very drunk - perhaps he's right, the best course of action is just to pretend it never happened.

They eat and drink for a few minutes before Red clears his throat.

"Also, Lizzie? I do have a question."

"Yes?" She swallows the last bite of her croissant and takes a sip of coffee to wash it down.

"Did you mean it, last night?"

Liz can feel her face burning as she blushes fiercely. She can suddenly feel every place he kissed her coming alive, yearning for more.

She looks over at him.

He's waiting so patiently for her answer, with a calm, attentive expression, but there's something deep in his eyes, something that tells her he expects her to say no, make a joke, beg him to forget about it.

Red is waiting for her to reject him.

"Yes," she tells him. Plain and simple. Telling the truth. "Yes, actually, I did."

Very slowly, he leans across the remnants of their shared breakfast and kisses her. Kisses her mouth for the first time, the second, the third.

When they pause, she's suddenly very aware of the bed they are sitting on, the mirrored wall, how little she's wearing beneath her robe.

She knows what she wants now, but how to say it?

"Red?"

"Yes, Lizzie?" His voice is so deep, so delicious.

"Can you move your hat, please? I don't want us to crush it."


	2. Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G

"This is the worst timing," Liz complains as she slings her duffel bag into the trunk of Red's car, refusing Dembe's offer to assist her. "No, no, it's ok, I got it."

She heaves the heavy cardboard box of files into the trunk next, then adds her carry-on bag stuffed with shoes.

"So much research to do this weekend, and I finally got permission to work from home, and then this."

Dembe shakes his head sympathetically, not interrupting her somewhat rambling series of complaints. Liz had a couple of beers with the repairman, in an effort to encourage him, but the water kept pouring out of her elderly washer and eventually shorted out all the electricity in her unrenovated bungalow.

"Are you bringing a computer, too?" he asks her.

Liz gives a decided shake of her head.

"No, I need to go through the paper files first. Think about them."

She doesn't add that among the hodgepodge of files on the latest blacklister are several that appear to date back to the time of her childhood.

Her mother.

She tries so hard not to think about her mother. She can't remember her face or her voice, only the scent of her French perfume.

Liz should have scanned these files before removing them from the Post Office, but Aram pointed out the blurry photograph of her mother just as she was starting to organize them.

"That woman looks like you," was all he observed, setting a paper plate with three chocolate chip cookies on her desk before departing, but it was enough.

And now her new home is flooded and she's reluctantly accepted Red's offer to stay in his latest safe house, a huge penthouse apartment with a 360 degree city view.

The only drawback is the open floor plan and the immense, colorful ceramic statues of horses. Blatantly male horses.

It's not her type of modern art, not at all.

Dembe gives her a questioning glance as she rounds the car and settles into the front seat beside him.

"Drive," she grins at him, flicking her fingers to show she's kidding. "And put on something you like." The radio is exuding soothing classical music.

"This is one of my favorite stations," he responds, deadpan, and she giggles and leans forward, scanning through the satellite channels until she finds a song she wants to sing to.

OK, maybe she had more than two beers.

She's going to spend the weekend with Raymond Reddington. She's going to learn the truth, at least some of the truth, about her mother.

"Seat belt." Dembe grins at her, starts the big car with a rumble as she complies, then proceeds to sing along with her.

He has a wonderful voice.

***

Red paces back and forth in the foyer of the apartment.

Dembe is more than 30 minutes late. He's never late.

Well, to be fair, he's not due to arrive at a specific time, but Red knows how long it takes to drive here from the little bungalow. He knows that exactly, in various types of traffic, weather conditions, even snow.

Liz bought a foreclosed house and then proceeded to camp out in it rather than proceeding with renovations. She even sold her car, has been taking the train when he doesn't pick her up and deposit her at work.

She wouldn't change her mind. She couldn't.

At last the sound of the front door, the jingle of Dembe's keys.

Red has stocked up on wine, champagne, hard liquor and more than twenty different mixers.

Beer never occurred to him.

Dembe waves at him, a six pack in each hand, as Liz bolts the front door, laden with cheap nylon luggage, plus a labeled and tagged file box that screams FBI.

"Red?" Liz sounds so relaxed, grinning at him in her loose blue shirt and tight black leggings. She rolls her eyes at the huge blue horses posing provocatively on either side of the front door. "Where should I put my things?"

Dembe answers for him.

"Up those stairs - we all have our own lofts."

Red watches appraisingly as Liz climbs the white tansu stairs to her sleeping space, lugging her belongings with her.

She's been running again. The flex of her perfectly toned thighs hurts his heart.

***

She relents, later that evening, and lays the contents of the box out slowly before them on the low glass table in front of the couch, still sipping on a beer as Red enjoys a glass of perfectly aged Burgundy.

Her loss, his gain. He's only got three more bottles left from that case.

Red stares down at the next photograph in shock. Reaches his fingers out, realizing too late that she's no longer unloading the box, that she's watching his every move.

"You know who she is."

Red pauses, his fingers just above the photograph that looks like Liz. The curling, brown-edged photograph.

"Masha," he whispers softly. And there's a whole world of pain in that word, pain he can't hide or deny.

Liz stares over at him.

"What did you say?" she asks him.

Red lifts the photograph carefully and passes it to her.

"Your mother. That was her nickname."

He gives a sad little shake of his head.

"You never ask me about her. I've always wondered why."

Liz stares down at the photograph. Red takes another sip of his wine.

Waiting.

"I guess I've always suspected you knew her." Liz looks over at him, her eyes bright and fierce. "Were you and she ...lovers?"

The question surprises a chuckle from him, which dies away quickly as Red realizes she's just staring at him with growing intensity. So that's why she didn't ask him.

He's very glad he's had a couple of glasses of wine.

"No, Lizzie, she was just an old friend from school," he says softly, and setting down his glass, he leans over and kisses her softly on the lips. "You are so very special to me, in a completely different way."

Her face softens, and her arms come around him to hold him, and they kiss again, heedless of Dembe's smile and the giant, green, overly endowed ceramic stallion rearing up behind the couch.


	3. Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, slightly off the prompt

Ressler is still shouting angrily as the big black car pulls away.

Five days. Liz was held captive by that man, her life at risk every second, for five days.

Red holds her against him, ignoring the smell of her unwashed body and hair, the grimy rags of her suit, her left side caked with filth from the cellar floor. The dried blood on her scraped knuckles. At the corners of her bruised mouth.

He doesn't have to urge Dembe to drive faster. The car is almost flying.

At the safe house, a low, rambling mansion with french doors opening onto the formal gardens from every wing, he and Dembe all but carry her inside, slumping between them.

She needs food and water; but also, she needs to get cleaned up. Red needs to be sure no medical attention is required.

His stomach heaves at the thought that she might have been raped.

If so, that man died much too quick a death. Not even a blacklister, just an ambitious pawn.

Liz hasn't said a word. She just reached for him when they carried her out. Clutched at his lapels with her filthy hands, her torn, crusted wrists bleeding down his shirtfront.

He and Dembe were in Lisbon when it happened. He won't ever forgive the FBI for not alerting him sooner.

At the door of his spacious bathroom, Liz clings to the door frame.

"No, leave me, I'll be fine." Her voice rasps despite the bottle of water she's already downed, two more sitting on the edge of the sink next to his shaving gear.

Red brought her to his own rooms without thought. 

Dembe looks over from where he's adjusting the hot water in the enormous walk-in shower.

"You could fall, Elizabeth," he says gently, as if to a child. "Allow Raymond to assist you."

Liz shakes her head, swaying in place. 

"No, no," she says again. So determined.

Red can't bring himself to lift her, or drag her, or even lay hands on her at all. Not when she's shaking her head.

"Lizzie, let me help you get clean," he says softly, "Or would you rather let Dembe?"

He gives her a little smile, trying to inject some humor.

She nods at once, her matted dark hair falling over her eyes.

"Yeah. Dembe."

Red looks over at Dembe, who looks concerned, but somehow unsurprised.

"Then I'll leave you to it," Red snaps, walking quickly from the room before he can say anything he will surely regret.

***

It's less than a hour later, but it feels like forever, before Dembe opens the bedroom door and motions to Red. He's sitting in the attached study, staring out the French doors, trying to read. 

The book open on his lap is a leather-bound collection of Seneca's essays. Appropriate, but insufficient as a distraction from the sound of the shower, then the silence.

"She just wants to rest," says Dembe quietly. His clothing is soaked, but his face is calm.

"She won't need a doctor?" asks Red.

Dembe shakes his head, then holds the bedroom door wide for Red to enter.

Liz is lying in the very center of his bed, with the covers up to her armpits. She's wearing one of his pajama tops with the sleeves rolled up. The blue and red paisley silk suits her.

"Lizzie?"

Her eyes turn from the view of the garden through the bow window to Red.

So blue, so wide. So welcoming.

"Red. Come here."

She puts out one bandaged hand, pats the bed beside her.

He sits down slowly, careful not to bounce the bed. Crossing his legs. Keeping one foot on the floor.

Their eyes meet and hold. Red feels like she's trying to tell him everything about the last five days, without words, but he doesn't speak her language. 

He's only ever wanted to keep her safe.

"Thank you," she says. "Thank you for bringing me here. Thank you for Dembe, for letting Dembe..."

"Whatever you need, Lizzie. Whatever you want."

He's abruptly so ashamed of his anger, his jealousy. If she feels safer, more comfortable with Dembe, then who is he to argue? 

His brother. The man Red himself trusts most in this life.

Liz reaches out and takes his hand, her bandages rough compared to the soft skin of her fingertips.

"Don't, Red. It's just that ... I didn't want you to see me like that."

Red shakes his head, feeling the tears welling up. Swallowing them back down with enormous effort.

Battered and bruised and starved, Liz is somehow comforting him. He doesn't deserve her.

She gives his fingers a little squeeze, bringing his downcast eyes up to meet hers again.

"If you ever help me shower, Red, I'd like to be able to give as good as I get."

Her gentle smile makes it less of a tease, more of a promise.

Red can't help but return the smile, the sudden shock of his heart beating so much faster quickening his breath. He knows she can hear it, because her smile widens, just a flash of her white teeth.

Red wants to take a shower with Liz more than anything in the world. And it will come.


	4. New Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G

He looks like a politician, or a top executive, or an aging movie star. An elegant silver-haired gentleman, slim and tanned, with an aquiline profile and long, sensitive fingers.

As Red emerges from the elevator into the familiar smells and sounds of the Post Office, Liz tips back her head and laughs, pure peals of laughter emerging as the man laughs back at her, his light gray eyes warm on her animated face.

"Raymond..."

He doesn't need Dembe's warning voice at his back to know that his face is going expressionless and ugly, his shoulders pulling back beneath his long overcoat. His hands all but twitching for the feel of his guns, the bark, the recoil.

Alessandro Rohan. 

Interpol doesn't want him half as badly as Raymond Reddington.

She can't possibly know what he's done. No matter how heinous the crime, and the photographs filling the high video screens are surely graphic and terrible, from New Orleans almost two years ago, there's nothing that could justify offering immunity to Rohan. Working with him.

Allowing him to touch her.

Red watches, incredulous, as Alessandro Rohan reaches over and gives Liz a little squeeze on the upper arm, directing her attention to a set of photographs on the far left hand screen.

Why couldn't she have just caught up on paperwork? He and Dembe were only gone for two weeks. Well, two weeks and five days, but the negotiations were delicate, and afterward Red suffered from a stomach virus so virulent he ordered tests run to be sure he hadn't been poisoned.

Aram smiles over at him, and Red gives him a little nod. It was intended as a courtesy, but the younger man blanches and quickly looks back at his keyboard.

Red needs to get hold of himself. Rohan has unwittingly given him a data-point; he's right here, right now, and presumably Red will also know when he departs. It's time to contact Mr. Kaplan.

Red turns to Dembe, but he's already retreating into the elevator, phone at his ear. Almost psychic where Red is concerned.

"Hello, Reddington. Enjoy your holiday?" It's Samar Navabi, smirking up at him in greeting as if she too knows exactly what he's thinking. Red swallows, damning her perceptive dark eyes as he allows his features to soften to mere annoyance.

"Ah, Agent Navabi," he greets her in a genial tone. "Thrown anyone new out of a window lately? You know, those little signature touches, they do start to cloy on the bystander, after a time."

Her smile is just a show of teeth now.

"She's got a new man on speed dial," she returns in a low, triumphant voice. Women rarely forgive a man who spurns their advances. "An upgrade, wouldn't you say?"

So she's not aware either. The Hague is so close-mouthed.

"Raymond Reddington, what a surprise!"

From across the room, Alessandro Rohan opens his arms wide as if to welcome Red with an embrace. His gray eyes sparkle with amusement. His teeth are perfectly even, blindingly white.

Red only has eyes for Liz, the bright flash of her blue eyes, the way her mouth opens joyfully for just a second, one intake of breath, then she's covering that with a frown as she strides towards him.

"Red! Where have you been?"

She stops just short of touching him, her eyes lingering on his lips for a second. Just long enough for him to notice.

"Weren't you watching my chip on the tracker?" he responds dryly, batting his lashes at her to see if she reacts in her normal way, just a flutter of her own dark, curling lashes.

Then Rohan is behind her, one arm snaking around her waist, his fingers actually touching her hip through her black tights and tunic for a moment.

"Welcome to the party, Ray," he says in his lightly accented English. "Liz and I are working on a new case. One that she selected herself."

Liz gives Alessandro a warm smile. 

"Yes, Mr. Rohan has been extraordinarily helpful. He's so very connected," she almost gushes. Oddly, that overly affectionate tone begins to settle Red's stomach, a teeming mass of nerves that threatens to spill over into his voice despite the self-control on which he prides himself.

She talked with Tom in that very tone. Perhaps she's just playing along with Rohan, flattering his towering vanity.

Liz reaches over and gives Alessandro a little rub on the back, as if she's caressing the soft linen of his sport coat, worn loose over elegantly draped slacks with a white shirt open at the collar. Red clenches his jaw.

Or perhaps this is just her version of feminine. Perhaps she's drawn to the man. Alessandro Rohan's conquests are legendary, including famous and wealthy women, models and movie stars, even minor royalty.

He's known for splashy romantic gestures, coupled with absolute discretion. It's the women and the press who reveal the details.

They believe he's just a high-end jewel thief.

***

Liz locks the door to her hotel room behind her and kicks off her cheap black pumps with relief.

Her third dinner with Alessandro Rohan, at the most exclusive restaurant yet. They'll be on the society pages tomorrow.

They danced after they ate, the pressure of his arms around her perfectly calculated to display attraction without presumption. Liz can't help comparing their first dance to her first dance with Red, the way he held her apart from his body, his distance, his formality making no sense at all until she learned the truth about Madeline. How dangerous Madeline could be. Protecting her, once again.

Liz plunks herself down on the end of the bed for a moment, resting in preparation for the yoga-like contortions that will allow her to unzip her short, strapless black evening dress. 

The food was amazing. She gives inward thanks for her control top pantyhose, and vows to take a long run in the morning.

Or maybe on the weekend. She's more than a little tipsy.

There's a sharp rap at the door.

Liz groans. She ignored three calls from Red during the course of the evening - what could possibly be so important that he has to invade her motel room at midnight? Has he been lurking outside, just waiting for her to return?

Liz rises and opens the door in her stocking feet, bolting it behind Red after a glance around for Dembe, who is curiously absent.

Perhaps he's in the car. It's a cold night, high clouds obscuring the stars, only a faint sliver of moon occasionally visible.

"Lizzie," Red greets her, not removing his hat or his overcoat, not even sitting down. Just standing at the foot of her bed, his broad back to the mirrored wall.

"Why are you here, Red?" she asks him, still standing because he's standing, wishing she had already changed into her pajamas and robe. Her flattering new bustier itches, but she's not about to scratch or tug at it in front of him. Not when he's standing so close, immaculately layered for the cold, the long green scarf at his throat turning his tired eyes to fractal sea glass. Glowing against his pale skin, the faintest hint of uncharacteristic stubble glinting silver and red.

"Lizzie, I know I have no right to advise you on who to date..." Red begins, breaking off as she lays her hands on his chest and shoves him, not hard, barely rocking him back on his solidly planted feet, but enough to interrupt whatever he's about to say.

"Date? Date?" He's just here to scold her? She's blindingly angry, white light actually clouding her vision as if her dim motel room was lit up with high intensity lights. "You think I'm going on dates?!? That I'd date a criminal?!?"

They both freeze, his face going hollow, then crumpling. 

There's no other word for it. Like a paper mask in a rainstorm, Raymond Reddington sags and falls to the floor between them, and Red, just Red, he looks at her from the very pit of hell, falling backwards, soundlessly, away from her.

Liz doesn't know what to say, what to do.

In a moment this will all be over.

He'll go, she'll sleep. The task force will continue, or it won't.

She'd give anything to unspeak those words. But she can't.

All Liz has left is forward, now or never. Before her heedless, drunken words corrode and inevitably destroy them both.

She lays her palms on his chest again. Not a shove, or a push, just a firm touch, allowing her fingers to trace his collarbones through the inevitable layers of expensive fabric.

"We're a little past dating, aren't we, Red?" she whispers.

He stares at her, his mouth slightly open, reminding her once again that he's never kissed her, allowed her willing tongue to trace those irregular teeth, those sensual lips.

Liz steps closer. Abject surrender is all that will serve. Here. Now.

"I know he's a bad man. This is all about intel..."

Red just breathes without speaking, the force of his breath, sour with scotch and cigars and defeat, gusting over her. 

Alessandro Rohan smells of cologne and breath mints. He know exactly how to flatter her, answers all her questions, listens attentively to her long, rambling stories about Sam. Red mostly talks. He doesn't always listen. At least, not to what she says.

Liz steps in close, too close, her lower body pressed against Red, her feet between his, slides her hands slowly, very deliberately, down his chest, around his waist. Hooks her hands back up under the taut fabric of his vest against his back, tracing the texture of his scars through the finely woven fabric.

"You're different. You're special."

As his eyes go liquid, she knows just what to say.

"You're very special, Red."

Then she kisses him, her mouth opening wide.

Telling him with her body. Until he answers her, answers her again and again.


	5. Role-Playing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, hard M for use of rope, AU. Please skip this one if allusions to consensual bondage bother you.

"Sold. To the lady in black."

She's almost humiliated by how quickly the King family staff deliver him to her room. 

As if they know how Liz feels, the bloom of shameful desire that touched her when she woke stripped to her lingerie, just her money and his bluff and the deadly enemies around them, like fire-walking, like a pit of cobras in the hot hot sand.

"20 million."

She outbids Yaabari, and gestures in the air once more.

He's mine now. Give him to me.

They drag Red to her, his arms cuffed behind him, abashed and somehow diminished. Just a commodity.

She can't have that.

It will be hours before the FBI arrives. Liz needs to make this look real. She knows, he knows, that their enemies are watching.

Liz rubs her damp hands down the spangled skirt of her expensive long black dress. She has to start with Madeline Pratt.

"That chair." She gestures at the carved oak side chair, the one with solid legs and a high, intricately scrolled back.

His ankles roped to the legs of the chair, knees spread.

His wrists bound behind him, then to the back of the chair, one of the guards throwing one last loop of the long rope casually around Red's neck. To strangle him if he resists.

Liz steps forward, feeling the fabled King family earrings, tarnished diamonds set in an antique frame, jangling at her ears.

"No. Give me that," she tells them.

She unwinds the rope from his neck herself as they hesitate. 

Of course. They have orders. The camera, mounted high one corner, to enforce them.

"Pull down his pants for me," she orders the guards, reaching for the glass of champagne she set down on her nightstand. Taking a slow, careful sip as Red struggles against the indignity, the thin fabric of the custom tailored tuxedo pants peeled so quickly down to his bound ankles.

No underwear. No delay there.

Lix bends down, inspects him closely as he struggles against the bonds holding him to the chair. Takes another deliberate sip of her champagne.

"No lipstick, and you smell like soap," she comments in a sarcastic tone, giving the loose end of the rope a little swing with one hand. "Not perfume. So was dear Madeline just a diversion? A lie to increase your price?"

Red looks up at her, looking hopeless, helpless.

Right. She's purchased him. He should look afraid. They can do this.

Liz circles back behind the chair, pulling the remaining rope tight at his bound wrists, then bends to slide the loose end of the rope under the chair, then strolls around to collect it from the floor. From between his outspread feet.

She loops the rope around him once, just tight enough from his wrists to the base of him that he grunts. She finishes her champagne, sets the empty glass down on the floor.

"You made a serious mistake, Raymond Reddington," Liz tells him, touching him lightly with the loose, fraying end of the long rope, tying one knot, then another, close to the end, then stroking him with the rough lump of those knots. "I don't suppose you want to tell me that you're sorry, now? Beg for my forgiveness?"

"Lizzie." His voice is so hoarse, his whining intakes of breath increasing as she gives the rope a very gentle tug. Just a reminder.

Red leans forward, breathing heavily as he creates slack in the rope. Bare below the waist, he's still wearing his jacket, his vest, his shirt. Liz has hours of entertainment ahead of her, if she needs them.

"You belong to me now," she tells him, rubbing the knotted rope between his legs. Reminding him that the guards will do whatever she commands. No doubt these types of violations are banal to them by now.

He casts her an incredulous glance.

None of that. He could betray them both. 

Liz thrusts her middle finger between her lips, sucks and licks it as her saliva drips down the back of her hand.

Then she slides her wet hand between his thighs, waits until he meets her eyes, his lips pinched, his heavy jowls trembling. 

"Up."

She tugs with her other hand on the rope, forcing Red up to crouch just above the seat of the chair, his head bent almost to his trembling knees. 

"Beg for my forgiveness?" she repeats, stroking her wet fingers back under him, back and forth, out of sight of the guards. 

His face bright with embarrassment, Red gasps at the intimacy of her touch, then leans forward further, straining so hard against his bonds that when she tugs the rope again, it barely moves. 

"Forgive me, forgive, forgive.." 

He's thrusting back against her fingers now, his ass raised just above the seat of the chair, in the perfect position for her to slap and bite and beat him.

Much better. Whatever it takes. As if he too has played this game before.

The avid eyes of the guards. Her own breath still perfectly controlled.

"This is the FBI, stop and put your hands up. Surrender and no one gets hurt," the megaphone brays from the interior of the compound.

Both guards pull open the door and run from the room, weapons raised, their interest in her torment of Red forgotten.

Liz unwinds the rope, then immediately tugs his tuxedo pants back up to his heaving waist and fastens them tightly before she starts working to release the tight knots holding him to the chair.

"Lizzie," Red gasps, shaking as she loosens first his wrists and then his ankles. "Lizzie. Lizzie."

She pulls him up from the chair and into her arms, in a hard embrace, just as Ressler and the others burst into the room. Concealing the unmistakable evidence of his arousal from their collective gaze.

"I saved him," she gasps, pulling back until their eyes meet, wide and adrenaline-crazed, their bodies shuddering as she clings to him despite the watchful gaze of her colleagues. "I saved him."

"Yes," he gasps in his deep voice, corroborating her story. "Yes, she saved me. Lizzie saved me."

Liz buries her face against Red's shoulder to hide her blush at the contemptuous look on Ressler's face, the concern in Samar's dark eyes. Waits for him to chide her for the risk she took in playing out this unscripted scene. Liz fully expects Red to say "You can never do this again."

But he doesn't.


	6. I Can't Lose You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G

"I can't lose you." 

The way she said those words, in that broken voice, it tore at Dembe's heart. The scar tissue he had so long believed would endure forever, ripping it aside, allowing the healing blood to flow.

"He can't hear you now," Dembe tried to say, but her small body was already covering Red's prone frame, as Dembe crouched low and shot and shot, and her words bubbled forth from her lips like his frothy bright blood, too much, too quickly.

"Stay with me, Red, stay with me, stay, I can't lose you, Red, please stay."

Dembe speed-dialing Kaplan, their emergency team, even that fool Ressler, because anyone, everyone, was no worse than losing Raymond. Facing Liz bloody and white-faced and deadly as he's never seen her.

"I can't lose him. I just can't."

The ambulance is finally here, the scene secure, and Liz has the metal case now, striding away from Red, back to her vehicle.

Dembe looks after at her in dismay, in agony, with the desire to call her back he knows Red would feel if he were conscious, and Liz grins at him like a wolf. Mouths the words.

"I can't lose you."

And Dembe knows she means them both.

***

She has no scruples, no compunction. No old favors to honor, no ancient debts to pay.

Elizabeth Keen releases every blackmail file she is able to access with the Fulcrum, one after another.

Governments fall. Corporations crumble. Private fortunes collapse.

The FBI is restructured, as is the CIA.

In a private hospital outside Barcelona, Raymond Reddington slowly heals.

**

They won't tell him anything for weeks. Red sleeps and wakes in a drugged haze, the extensive damage from his bullet wound exacerbated by long-standing stress, poor diet, and an unfortunate predilection for illegal substances.

At last there is a morning when clarity returns, fresh light sifting through the filmy white curtains, and Dembe drowsing in an upholstered yellow chair at his bedside.

"Will I walk again?"

Red has to ask. He can feel his toes, at least he imagines he can feel them wiggling, but he can't lift his legs.

Dembe smiles, reaches out to touch his bare shoulder, exposed by the loose hospital gown. 

"Yes, Raymond, you are just weak from the surgeries."

Red closes his eyes for a moment, allows himself a sigh of relief.

"And Lizzie?"

Dembe doesn't respond.

Red's voice sharpens.

"Tell me, Dembe. Lizzie? Where is she?"

***

Six months is a long, long time.

Long enough for Liz to heal from the subtle surgeries that age her slightly, remove her scar and other identifying marks.

Long enough to procure a new passport and a new identity, one solid enough to pass an FBI background check.

The Fulcrum has completed its deadly work. 

Wherever he is now, Red is safe. 

Liz knows the name he gave his ketch, his MMSI, his call sign. She can find him now, wait for him and Dembe at their next port of call.

Liz only hopes Red still wants her. Because she can't lose him again.


	7. Taking Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, AU, T

Liz had never been to India, but she eagerly volunteered for the mission. The history of the country enthralled her, the smells, the colors, the ever-changing panorama of so many human bodies, human cultures, in ceaseless motion like minnows flitting above a coral reef. 

She also loved the casual drape of the deep red Buddhist robes, which concealed her scars, her wasted body, the granola bars with which she packed her luggage.

She'd been ill for weeks after an ill-advised attempt to eat the street food. Having an iron gut in relation to junk food back in the States meant nothing here.

So Liz sipped her purified water, longing for something stronger, but intoxicants were forbidden. She gnawed at the granola bars late at night in the silence of her tiny room in the ashram, technically contraband, but at least they didn't violate the purity of the prescribed vegetarian diet.

She meditated for hours on her round yellow cushion, which contained the concealed transmitter, but only felt comfortable during walking meditation.

Until the new priest appeared. 

Several of her erstwhile teachers had disappeared, and the gossip among her fellow nuns at the water fountain in the dusty, tiled courtyard, many of them also foreigners who had been drawn from around the world to take their vows at the ashram, has it that the missing monks were kidnapped or killed, quite possibly by Chinese agents.

His head was shaved, his hairy chest bare.

She sat in silence, her eyes forward, exquisitely aware of his breath.

They shared the air. Could he scent her, know her to be false, as she upon seeing him drew in that one deep breath that told her of danger?

That sang so sweetly to her unwilling, wounded heart, desire.

Raymond "Red" Reddington, the Concierge of Crime.

Visibly unarmed, if she avoided the vulgar analogies that rose all too easily to her lips when examining him, dressed only in a loop of fabric dyed the same half-dry blood shade as her own, which looped about his waist before it disappeared between his tan thighs, furred with silver-blond hair. Fabric pulled tight, that revealed rather than concealed.

She'd read his file through twice, the carefully annotated accounts of his legendary sexual prowess. Well, a few pages, more than twice.

To find him here spoke of corruption at the highest levels of the agency.

Her mission was critical.

His contacts, his connections, could render her weeks of tedious effort pointless.

Liz watched him constantly from beneath her modestly down-cast lashes. He seemed very at ease in his role as a monk. 

She could quickly tell that he listened and looked, really looked, at everyone who approached him, no matter how humble. He remembered their names, the questions they asked him. Any small favor, whether performed by an old man sweeping the fall of yellow petals from beneath his feet in the outer courtyard, to a matron delivering metal trays of perfectly ripe fruit for the ashram's table.

She couldn't risk their target, Andres Archer, moving on. She had to find some way to make a deal with Reddington.

So the following week she made an appointment for a private session. Now all she needed was an appropriate offering. Liz didn't want to ask her fellow nuns, so eventually she just settled on one of her last two granola bars. 

Chocolate chip.

At the appointed hour, Liz made her way to him, her eyes cast down. She laid her offering on the small, elaborately carved wooden table below the low dais where he sat motionless as a stone, the foil wrapper crackling loudly in the stillness of the small room.

Then she sat in lotus, waiting.

"You have questions?"

His voice was low, velvety smooth. He spoke in unaccented English, and when Liz timidly raised her gaze, she realized his eyes were green, not hazel, thickly lashed. So beautiful. She never thought that about a man's eyes before.

He stared at her almost in shock, his eyes widening, his impassivity dropping away.

"Your scar. Will you show it to me?" he asked her, with a gesture at her right wrist, curled in an imperfect mudra on her knee.

"Why?" Liz breathed out. Then she extended it out towards him without awaiting his response.

He sighed, looking down at her, then plucked a grape from a small brass bowl at his side. Held out his palm.

"Eat," he told her. Liz was sure this must be a test, so even though her stomach twitched at the thought of eating unpeeled fruit, she lifted it from his palm without touching his skin, chewed, then swallowed.

So sweet. 

His eyes followed her movements, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as if tasting the sweetness of the ripe fruit with her.

She's taken. It's her turn to give.

Liz bowed her head for a moment, thinking hard.

"There is a teaching I do not yet understand," she began. 

He sighed again, then took a handful of grapes, popping one after another into his mouth as she watched, fascinated by the interplay of desire and satisfaction animating his mobile features as he ate them, all but the last one.

"We renounce the desires of the world, but to do so, must we not first feel, experience, those desires?"

He blinked at her, his gaze sharpening.

"The arrows of Mara?"

Liz nodded, felt her breath coming faster. She needed to get him alone, and soon, before he snatched her target away. Her eyes moved to the bowl of grapes, but before she could reach out, he extended his palm.

That last grape rolled a little and stopped, held in place by the curve of his thumb.

"Taste," he instructed her, a little hoarsely.

And Liz leaned forward, set her mouth to his palm, and tasted his skin once, twice, before she ate. Her head still bent, her lips almost touching his thumb.

Waiting for further instruction. For her mission to resume.

Red would meet with her alone. Liz was confident of that now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was monk/nun. Got a little nervous the bunnies would lead me to Abelard my Red and I'm not going there, no matter how much I love h/c. Thus the above diversion from the prompt.


End file.
